


Time for a Change

by sister_coyote



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: F/M, Genderfuck, Genderswap, Materia, Misuse of Materia, Plot What Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2006-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Convincing Reeve to try out Vincent's idea was quite a bit easier than convincing Vincent that it was actually okay to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time for a Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maladaptive](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=maladaptive).



Ultimately, and as with so many things, it was Yuffie's fault.

Vincent didn't know where she got the materia. Vincent didn't _want_ to know where she got the materia. Vincent didn't know why she sent the materia to him, apart from her helpful-unhelpful note, which read: "In the hopes that this will finally get that stick out of your ass. Get Reeve to help.—Yuff."

He had never known Yuffie to _give away_ materia, so that either meant that that a) there was something wrong with it, b) it did something extremely unhelpful, or c) whatever it did, the idea of him using it was more amusing to her than getting her own use out of it. He didn't like any of those options.

He tried the materia on hostile nonsentient monsters first, to little evident effect. (Occasionally, their coloring or size changed, but that was all.) In fact, the . . . feel of the materia, the flavor it produced in his mind when he cast it, was more like Haste or Cure or Slow than, say, Bolt or Fire.

So, on the principle that—like it or not—he was more or less indestructable, he tried it on himself.

The first thing he noticed was that his balance was off, as if his center of gravity had shifted. He wondered briefly whether it was some kind of confuse-like spell meant to disrupt his footing. Then he realized that his center of balance _had_ shifted. And that his shirt felt, well, tight.

"Oh," he said, out loud, and felt himself coloring even though he was alone.

But really, compared to turning into a chainsaw-wielding psychopath or a baby behemoth, it was pretty innocuous, especially when he discovered that reversing the effects was trivial. Innocuous, but also pretty useless. It wasn't like it would be an effective disguise; people looked at him and remembered pale skin, dark hair, bloody eyes and a bronze claw. The presence or absence of breasts wasn't likely to change that. And while Tifa had (in near hysterics, while Cloud incandesced with embarrassment) recounted one escapade during which such specific shapechanging would have proved useful, such needs were few and far between.

He would later blame it on two years of sexual repression preceded by thirty years of sleep that it took him a solid hour for the thought _I wonder what Reeve would look like as a woman?_ to float across his mind.

As with so many things, once thought, it couldn't be un-thought.

His thoughts divided themselves into two camps. There was the Guilt camp, which had the advantage of long dominance in his personality, which said things like 'you're clearly a hopeless pervert,' 'you'll scare him off completely,' and 'he'll be insulted that you want him to undergo such a change to satisfy your own sexual curiosity.' But there was also the Libido camp, which had the backing of most of the rest of his body, and which said helpful things like 'well, obviously he wouldn't have a beard . . . ' and 'novelty is good in any relationship,' and 'I bet he has just gorgeous hips,' and, simply, 'nnnnng.' (It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to Reeve as a man, of course—but the possibility for . . . variation, well, it caught his imagination and refused to let go.)

The two sides fought it out for _months_, during which time Vincent kept the materia buried at the bottom of his sock drawer, and definitely did not mention it to Reeve. But it was almost certainly Reeve's increasingly prominent presence in his life that accounted for the eventual, hesitant, grudging victory of the Libido side.

Still, as he proposed the idea (so tentatively that Reeve said, halfway through his circuitous preface, 'Vincent, you know I care about you, but _spit it out already_), he was halfway convinced that Reeve would be irreparably disgusted or insulted or both.

" . . . so . . . " he concluded, " . . . if you're comfortable with it, and only if you're comfortable with it because I would never want to pressure you, I'd . . . like to . . . try it. On. You."

"Okay," Reeve said thoughtfully. "Sure. Hell, I'll try anything once."

Vincent nearly fell out of his chair. He goggled. "Really?"

"You can reverse it, yes? In a reasonable amount of time? Because I don't want to explain to the Board tomorrow why I have breasts."

"Yes."

"And it didn't hurt or debilitate you?"

"No."

"And I know you'd stop and change me back if it turned out I didn't like it."

"Of course."

"So I don't see why not. Clearly it'd please you, and who hasn't been at least a little curious about what it feels like."

"I've never known anyone to match you for curiosity, Reeve—"

"Blame Cait Sith."

"—but—you're not insulted?"

"No?"

"Really?"

Reeve sighed. "Yes-really. Vincent, please, for once in your life, accept that I want to do something for you and it's not going to traumatize me. Look. _I want to_."

Vincent met his gaze, uncertainly.

"So let me," Reeve finished.

"All right," Vincent finally said, softly.

It took a lot more negotiation, and reassurance, and finally a, "Vincent, I know you mean well, but if you ask me if I'm all right one more time, so help me I will sic Cait Sith on you. And possibly also Yuffie." This proved an effective threat, and they worked their way through the actual materia-use with no mishap.

Reeve made a surprisingly curvy woman. Not especially _voluptuous_, but with a narrow waist, a flair to the hip, a roundedness to the breast that made Vincent, frankly, stare. "Hey, that's different," Reeve said, cupping one. Vincent forgot to breathe. Reeve jiggled it experimentally. Vincent forgot _how_ to breathe. Reeve gave him a sly look made enigmatic by his fuller lips and lashes. "Come here," he said, holding out the hand that wasn't occupied with . . .

. . . toying with his nipple.

Helpless, feeling quite cheerfully doomed, Vincent went, knelt beside him, and didn't fight when Reeve caught his hand and curved it around the other soft breast. They both caught their breaths.

"That feels . . . " Reeve said, and trailed off. He tipped his head back, eyes half-closed, giving Vincent a perfect view of thick eyelashes, strong cheekbones, the surprisingly delicate line of his jaw revealed by the absence of beard.

"Yes?" Vincent promped when Reeve left the sentence abandoned.

Reeve opened his eyes to give him a dizzy look. "Good," he said. "It feels good. Don't stop." Encouraged, Vincent rubbed the pad of his thumb over the tightening nipple. Reeve moaned—a shockingly rich sound—and his hand crept down over his stomach and lower. Vincent watched, transfixed, as Reeve loosened his robe's tie and drew his knees upward, and slid his fingers . . .

"What does it feel like?" Vincent whispered.

"You didn't try it?" Reeve was beginning to flush along his collarbone.

"No," Vincent said. He pinched Reeve's nipple lightly and was rewarded with a squirm.

"Should have," Reeve said. "Although actually, do it some time when I can watch."

"But what does it—"

"Wet," Reeve said, taking pity on him. "And . . . hot, and almost tight, like an ache. It's funny. It feels best when I touch here, but I also really want something _in_ me."

"Oh," Vincent said. He wasn't sure whether Reeve meant that, was saying it to get a reaction, or, most likely, some of both. He also didn't really care. "Oh."

"Think you could help me out with that?" Reeve asked, regarding him from under his eyelashes.

Vincent had to swallow about four times before he could answer. "Yes."

But, he thought, as Reeve shrugged out of the robe entirely and drew his knees up, maybe it would be better not to let Reeve do _all_ the surprising, here. So when Reeve stripped off his shirt, he let him, but when Reeve's hands moved down to his belt, he slid down on the bed instead. Licked his way down from breasts to belly to . . . _there_, dark hair and musk.

"Oh god," said Reeve.

It wasn't the first time Vincent had done this, but it was the first time he'd done this in either seven years or thirty-seven years, depending on the way you counted. But on the other hand, chances were excellent that Reeve didn't have anything to compare this to, so . . .

It took him a bit of licking and fumbling to find the right spot, but when he did it took just seconds to have Reeve writhing, and honestly not long after that before Reeve's thigh twitched and he dragged a ragged breath and tensed up as his orgasm hit. The noises he made were quite familiar—his voice hadn't changed that much—but the physical responses were very different, and the contrast between the two was enough to make Vincent shake hard. He rose up, letting his hair drag over Reeve's body, and kissed him. Reeve startled a little, then relaxed and licked Vincent's mouth. They stayed that way for a while, as Reeve unwound.

"You know," he said after a few moments had passed, "I still want something—"

"Oh," Vincent said, "good."

Reeve grinned at him, and really it was funny how familiar he was—so many things the same, gestures and expressions, that it really drove home that this was still him, ultimately—whatever the shape of his body and makeup of his chromosomes might be at this particular moment. "Not going to leave you hanging," Reeve reassured him.

"It would be okay if you did—"

"Vincent, enough already. C'mere and fuck me."

The words hit Vincent like a fire spell, crackling hot and aching. "Okay," he said, feeling light-headed and . . . almost giddy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt giddy.

And it was easy, smooth and wet—not _better_ than sex with Reeve when he was a man, but different. He was so warm and relaxed—but he tensed up as Vincent pushed inside, flexing around him, and Vincent growled and Reeve moaned and it was going to be over _really_ fast, he realized, embarrassingly fast, with his mouth still wet and Reeve hot and tight and trembling, and, and —

(and it didn't help that he'd been thinking about this for months, and was still half-disbelieving that Reeve was _letting_ him)

— and he held off just long enough to pull a wail out of Reeve, Reeve's hand tight in his hair, before he came, his eyes wide, his breath harsh, Reeve's name riding on his moan. He tried to keep from collapsing completely, with mixed success, but Reeve laughed and said, "I'm presently female, but I'm not made of _glass_."

"Mmn," Vincent said. "You—I mean—"

"Yes. I enjoyed it." Reeve laughed and pushed his hair back out of his face. His hair was the same—thick, dark-brown, glossy. "I don't usually make noises like that if I'm not having fun. Are _you_ going to believe me next time I tell you that I like one of your ideas?"

" . . . Maybe."

Reeve snorted, sounding exasperated and amused at once. "That's a start. I really will sic Yuffie on you, you know."

"You don't need to," Vincent said absently, remembering the note that had accompanied the materia. "I think she's already got it covered."


End file.
